


At The End, In The Beginning

by emelianss



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Blood, Death, Family Loss, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Violence, M/M, Mild Gore, Psychic Abilities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5420534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emelianss/pseuds/emelianss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean runs across the front lawns of what’s left of the row of houses, heart racing with him in its cage. Screams, cries, every sound is empty except for the throbbing in his ear, and his stinging eyes stare straight ahead through the smoke to avoid the surrounding chaos.</p>
<p>Don’t look.</p>
<p>Blazing flames lick skin from flesh, people crawling in the trail of their own blood, bones broken, hopes shattered, lives draining away.</p>
<p><i>Don’t look.</i> He’s seen it all before, countless times, the images burned into his memory so clear he can’t even escape them when awake, <i>so don’t look at them again, don’t do it—</i></p>
<p>Marco.</p>
<p>He has to find Marco. </p>
<p>[7 short chapters based on the 14 prompts for JeanMarco Week 2015.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Begin Again / Dream On

**Author's Note:**

> Soo time to post these here as well! Five parts are written and posted on tumblr so far, and [here](http://emelianss.tumblr.com/post/122797241466/jeanmarco-week-day-1-begin-again-dream-on-one) is the original post for Day 1. I hope you enjoy, and would love to hear what you think!

Jean runs across the front lawns of what’s left of the row of houses, heart racing with him in its cage. Screams, cries, every sound is empty except for the throbbing in his ear, and his stinging eyes stare straight ahead through the smoke to avoid the surrounding chaos.

Don’t look.

Blazing flames lick skin from flesh, people crawling in the trail of their own blood, bones broken, hopes shattered, lives draining away.

_Don’t look_. He’s seen it all before, countless times, the images burned into his memory so clear he can’t even escape them when awake,  _so don’t look at them again, don’t do it—_

Marco.

He has to find Marco. 

This burning hell will end when he reaches him; meeting his friend’s frightened eyes and seeing the relief flash through them is always what gives him the strength to wake up.  The faster he gets there the better. Tears blur his vision, and he wipes them away, fingers dark with blood from wounds he doesn’t want to remember; pale faces frozen in terror the moment doom came upon them.

He isn’t the only one fleeing. There are others running too; young, old, parents carrying children, friends staggering under the weight of loved ones they end up leaving behind.  Jean can see them scream at each other, at nothing, but the sounds are distant to his ears, as if waves of water separate them. He’s alone, barely more than a child, and yet no one gives him a second glance. They’re too busy trying, failing, to save themselves.

(Don’t look.)

Bruised knees shake beneath him, jeans and skin torn from when he fell out of the wreckage of his home. But he pushes himself forward, following the way he knows so well, not even stopping a moment to think before he takes the sharp turn away from the main road leading to Marco’s house. He’s been there searching in earlier dreams, knows they have already left for the city centre, waiting to be evacuated. And he’s almost there, almost, almost.

Tree tops burn bright in the darkness, black smoke spreading upwards and covering the sky, the whole world coloured in shades of red with ash swirling through the air. Jean runs faster. His nostrils are filled with death, sticky blood pours down his face and neck, and dried, cracked lips are pressed tightly together, trying hard not to add his own voice to the cries.

And then a new vision shoves aside the present one, with its booming sounds and flashing pictures. Too bright to see; so bright it hurts. He blinks in alarm and shakes his head to focus, but the voices echo in the soundless emptiness left in his —  _this is the end of the world as we know it —_ and he stumbles, narrowly avoiding falling over what must be a body, parts of one, someone very specific, someone he recognises— **_don’t look—_**

Marco’s figure emerges from the smoke, turning with a start when Jean almost crashes to the ground in relief to see him. Soon, soon it will be over, he’ll be awake in his bed again, his parents still alive in the room next to his. Breathing rapidly he forces himself to steady, to take the last steps between them to reach Marco and the safety his being offers, and he waits, waits for his friend’s trembling arms around his back to be replaced by white bed sheets, waits for all of this to end once more.

The seconds tick by.

Marco’s eyes are wide and terrified and his lips move around Jean’s name in soundless, panicked questions as he pulls Jean out of the embrace to search for any severe injuries among all the smaller ones, hands gripping his shoulders, neck, cheeks. Jean flinches away when Marco touches his ear, the pain burning through his head so sudden and horrible his mouth falls open around a silent scream. Fear stabs his chest worse than ever before as he stares through tears at the scene before him. People have stopped running, but the calm is fleeting. Their nervous fidgeting turn into desperate attempts to get themselves a spot in the vehicles there to rescue them, pushing each other out of the way only to be shoved back by the police force.

No, not the police. Their uniforms are different, their stance more rigid, powerful, facing the chaos as if they have seen it before. As if they knew this sudden apocalyptic catastrophe would come, and prepared for it.

The voices from before break into Jean’s head again, screaming about how _they must rebuild_ , _create something new_ ,  _begin again_ , and he grits his teeth and tears his hair while watching the world fall apart around him.  _Why isn’t he waking up?_

Marco catches his attention then, hands back on his shoulders, his name faint but almost audible now. Jean’s eyes snap back to him, his intense stare meeting Marco’s broken one, searching an answer, to understand. He coughs the smoke from his lungs as best he can before he tries to speak, but words desert him.  _Dream_ , his mind shouts finally but he isn’t sure if Marco can hear him, if his voice is working.  _This is a dream._

Surprise crosses Marco’s face, followed by understanding. Then his lips tremble, tears leaving tracks in the dirt smeared over freckles and scratches on his cheeks. He whispers Jean’s name again, and even though his voice is too quiet, the way his mouth twists around it, quivering as he swallows and shakes his head, says more than Jean ever wanted to hear.

It’s no dream. Not this time.


	2. Paint / Electric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original Tumblr Post.](http://emelianss.tumblr.com/post/123073123741/jeanmarco-week-day-2-paint-electric-one) I hope you enjoy, and would love to hear what you think!

Marco presents his gift with an excited smile, seating himself on the floor in front of Jean, watching, waiting, for his reaction. Jean’s silent. But his fingers curl around the small bottles with almost possessive eagerness, his expression tight with emotions. It’s been  _so long_.

They’re sitting at a comfortable distance from the others, hiding behind the row of bunk beds standing in the room they’re meant to call home. It’s bleak and cold, but at least they have a roof above their heads until Marco’s parents can afford a place big enough for a family. So they’re lucky, even though it doesn’t always feel that way.

Jean unscrews the bottle lids, examining the diverse colours filling them, and his chest rises and falls with a soft, longing sigh. “Where did you get these?”  He asks, gazing up at Marco from behind unruly bangs. The silence following is long enough for him to come to his own conclusion, and his expression turns into a suspicious squint. “Did you steal them?”

Marco frowns a little but takes no offence. Jean’s tone isn’t even accusing; it’s searching, and he can almost see how Jean’s mind ponders the possibility to find more, to recreate the collection he had before everything they knew shattered to pieces. The thought’s lightening up his face in a way Marco hasn’t seen in months.  

But he shakes his head, and the crease between Jean’s brows deepens. The next moment he’s forcefully screwing the lids back on, hissing, “They must have cost you a fortune! What were you thinking, trading necessities for  _paint_?” But there’s a tremble in his movements, and Marco knows him well enough to see what the anger is hiding.

It will never stop hurting, a loss like this. Fade maybe, but not completely. And on top of the grief are the recurring visions of the future, trivial now with no important predictions since that day, but it’s still clear they make him uneasy.

“Jean.” Marco places a steady hand on his friend’s wrist to stop him from pushing the bottles back, and catches his eyes in a steady gaze. “It’s okay. I want to give this to you.”

Jean’s still scowling, considering, before his eyes return to the colours. He mutters about how there’s  _no paper anyway_ , and  _no brush either_. Marco should resell them to any of the more fortunate people in their half-built camp, because they’re the only ones able to spare their savings for such a luxury as paint.

“Oh that’s easily solved _._ ” Marco ignores the last part with a light smile, taking a bottle from Jean to reopen it. He then wriggles his index and middle fingers to show what he means. 

Jean raises an eyebrow at him, still not convinced, and when Marco scoots closer on his knees, offering his arm as canvas, Jean snorts and lets out an unamused laugh. “What a fucking waste.”

“It’s not a waste if it makes you happy, even only for a short while.”

Marco holds his gaze and takes out something more he’d kept behind his back. It’s a thin brush, far from new but still better than nothing, and Jean bites his lip hard as his fingers run along the wood.

“I didn’t mean you should use them all now, you know. Just offering if you want to try a little. Until we can get you actual paper.”

“Marco–”

“I know. But don’t give them back.”

Silence falls between them, stretching until it’s no longer heavy, but comfortable. And then Jean’s holding Marco’s arm with one hand to make sure he doesn’t move, bending over it to better see what he’s doing. Marco watches Jean’s face quietly, sees him relax in calm concentration, the worry for a moment erased from his features.

The brush slides through mixing colours, blue and red and green, creating a small nebula on Marco’s skin. Jean avoids certain spots, though, swirling around them with practised precision before filling them in with white, turning freckles into sparkling stars.

The tingle starts by Marco’s elbow, so small he doesn’t think more of it than to scratch there with his fingers, making sure to keep the arm still. But the strange prickle increases and spreads over his skin, almost like electricity. Then the static seems to crackle in his ears, the way his old earphones used to do sometimes, but stronger, lingering longer, and without any devices causing it.

Marco shakes his head to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling and Jean glances up at him in question. But instead of a vocal response, a jolt shots over Marco’s arm, making Jean jerk back with a surprised “ah!”, brush leaving a misplaced line across the whole painting.

They stare in shock at the tiny sparkles of charged energy dancing unevenly between Marco’s tense fingers. It forms a quick web-like pattern in his palm, shining blue and purple, before it fades away with a low fizzling sound.

Jean closes his mouth only to open it again with a soundless  _what the fuck,_ and then meets Marco’s startled eyes. “Well, I certainly didn’t foresee  _this_.” He gives the hand a careful poke, quickly withdrawing again when a new sparkle catches his finger. “Wow. Is it… um… selfish of me to be glad I’m not the only one the apocalypse made into a freak? At least this stuff seems cool.”

Marco doesn’t know what to say, so he remains silent and answers instead with an uncertain smile. To be honest it frightens him. They’re the cause of many questions, these peculiar abilities people have discovered but that no one can explain. Not even those who knew about the end long before it came can offer any answers.

But the days that follow show a small shift in Jean’s eyes, make them brighter, closer to how they used to be. And, scary power or not, Marco decides that not all changes this new world brings are for the worse.


	3. Hand To Hold / Vigil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original Tumblr Post.](http://emelianss.tumblr.com/post/123073809171/jeanmarco-week-day-3-hand-to-hold-vigil-one) I hope you enjoy, and would love to hear what you think!

New Year used to be a celebration with fireworks lightning up the midwinter night, cold and snow glistering.

This time it’s late August, the night dark but warm instead of chilly, and fireworks replaced by candles carried by people in no mood to celebrate anything. In a way they should, of course. Rejoice in being alive when so many others aren’t. Cheer and feast because they survived the death thrust upon them by unknown powers. And maybe someday in the future, if humankind survives, that’s what this day will be. But not now. Not yet.

Jean stands with arms crossed over his chest and shoulders tense, glaring at everyone and no one. He refuses to take Marco’s offered hand with a muttered _don’t be weird_ , and Marco retorts by telling him not to  _make_  it weird. But he holds his arms tighter, face turned in the opposite direction with a telling scowl, and Marco can only sigh in frustration as he lets him be.

This was organised last year as well, shortly after they were evacuated from the ruins of their old home. When wounds were still fresh and bleeding, cries and prayers loud and heart wrenching. Jean was trembling then, blank eyes staring ahead without seeing, with fingers clutching Marco’s arm so hard it bruised. Around them stood what’s left of Marco’s own family, deep in their own grief but still using their presence to ensure Jean knew he isn’t alone.

No matter what, they’re here when he needs them.

Marco gets a short look from his youngest sister before she silently steps in between them. Jean might be stubborn, but his weakness for the small girl is stronger than his pride, and when she tugs at his shirt arm he relents with only the tiniest hesitation. To the background sound of solemn speeches, Marco notices how Jean squeezes her fingers tight in his. She brushes his knuckles with gentle care and leans her head on his arm, while the candlelight glimmers in the droplets on his cheeks.

And Marco’s glad he’s allowing someone to be close, even if it isn’t him.

—

Twelve months later, twenty-four, thirty-six, Jean finds Marco’s hand with ease, entwining their fingers with no need to think it through beforehand. No embarrassment. No wounded pride.

Only gratitude they’re both still here to hold. 


	4. Warrior / Call My Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original Tumblr Post.](http://emelianss.tumblr.com/post/135068223051/jeanmarco-week-day-4-warrior-call-my-name-one) I hope you enjoy, and would love to hear what you think!

Marco hopes for answers, for the unlikely to come true, even though he doesn’t dare say it out loud. But it’s there in his actions; in the way he speaks of the braveventuring outside searching knowledge; in his eyes when he sees them leave for a new expedition. Even when they return empty-handed, he holds on to that fragile fragment of hope so tightly his fingers bleed.

Jean doesn’t share his hope. Sure, he isn’t unnecessarily pessimistic either, but reality is what it is and he can’t see past that anymore. There’s too much death etched on the insides of his eyelids, too much loss scattered sharp in his chest. And the thoughts that make Marco hopeful, fill Jean with dread.

He can’t bear losing him too.

They’ve had this conversation before, if it can be called that. Never exactly the same, but always leaning in a similar direction. Small exchanges of words, innocent, maybe even random on their own, but Jean can see a worrying pattern in these thoughts Marco voices.

 _We don’t even have a clue what we’re fighting against_ , he’s tried more than once, and it’s true. They don’t. Whatever it is has the power to burn cities to the ground without showing itself –  _it could be angry gods or aliens blowing shit up from their spaceship for all we know!_  Their best chance to survive is to stay where they are and work their way up to better circumstances. They even have an advantage, with their gifts; when Marco realised he can charge batteries with the electricity in his hands it immediately earned him an important job and role to fill. He is needed here.

Not just because of that.

But it’s not enough. Jean watches him in silence, forgetting the task of looking through the files left on the old laptop he’s holding. The one Marco charged earlier, with hands now used to the strange power surging through their veins. They sit outside, close to the small centre of the town where scouts are gathering and preparing to leave for another expedition. Marco’s turned in their direction, away from Jean, lips pressed together in a tight line and brows furrowed in thought. Eyes gleaming. He doesn’t even say anything this time. Doesn’t have to.

And then the words are there. Those words that make Jean’s insides crumble as he voices them. The words that remain hanging heavy between their chests as Marco continues staring at the scouts. Asking, and at the same time stating. Jean isn’t sure if he wants Marco to be honest or to deny it even though they both know the truth.

“You’re thinking about joining them.”

“I just…” Marco’s voice trails away with the wind blowing past them, rustling through their hair before moving on to the autumn leaves withering on the ground. He bits his lip, eyes now downcast. “Someone might still be out there.”

Jean says nothing. He understands what Marco means, of course he does. He knows that when Marco says ‘someone’ it’s because he doesn’t dare being more specific than that. It’s the hope he doesn’t dare voice.

But it’s still there, and it’s going to pull him towards the gates until he’s finally close enough to open them. Jean knows he can’t blame him for it, can’t be angry and selfish and ask him to  _stop_. He can’t. It was devastating to see his parents’ broken bodies, but at least he  _knows_  they’re dead. Marco’s left with the uncertainty of what happened to the members of his big family that weren’t with them when the catastrophe hit. To his older sister away from home with friends, who he now hasn’t seen in over two years. Left with crippling doubt and wavering hope, with no means to find answers.

Except this, of course. The option Jean dreads he will take.

The outside isn’t that horrible, really. The beasts are fast and dangerous, but together skilled scouts can take them down. People have been injured, but except for the first months the death rate is low. They’re warriors fighting against the unexpected changes the end had brought to the world, making it safer for others to go out and collect food in the wild too. As long as they keep their distance from the deeper forest and get back inside before nightfall.

So with that logic, Jean shouldn’t worry too much. But he has another source for his fear, one he doesn’t share with Marco even when he accidentally wakes him up with his sobbing. Jean’s pretty sure Marco believes the nightmares are about the catastrophe, memories tangled together with terror and panic. And he lets that be, because telling him the truth would be too horrible.

As long as no one else knows about the screams of anguish echoing through Jean’s head with far too many nightly visions the past months, he can pretend they aren’t real. Or try to, at least. But it’s hard to keep the worry away when he’s heard his best friend cry his name as he’s being torn apart, and no matter how many times the dream repeats itself, Jean’s always too far away. Never fast enough.

Never able to save him.

“Jean.” Marco’s voice is soft now, a murmur instead of a scream, caring instead of tormented. With a hand resting on Jean’s shoulder he tilts his head to the side, kind eyes searching Jean’s expression for answers. They’re in the lunch room now, supposed to eat but Jean hasn’t even touched his plate. “What’s wrong?”

Jean’s silent at first, staring back at him, gaze sliding over his freckled cheeks, down to the lips. Fragments and echoes of dreams and visions flash before his eyes, as he remembers other ways they have moved around his name. Soft whispers and loud pants that make his heart race for a whole other reason than just the thrill of visions. He’s lost count of how many times he’s woken with a familiar taste lingering on his lips, from something he’s never tried, staring out in the dark and then turning on his side to glance at Marco sleeping in the bed beside his. Face relaxed, peaceful,  _beautiful_.

And  _then_  he hopes. Oh, he hopes.

Hopes desperately that making the good ways come true won’t trigger the bad, that they’re not somehow connected and that he can still stop him from going, from breaking, from  _dying_ , even if he lets this  _other thing_  happen first.

Because he can sense it coming, and it has nothing to do with foresight. It’s in how he can’t help getting lost watching Marco, and in how Marco always leans closer when he notices it. The way he’s  _right there_  now, how his breath meets Jean’s between them, waiting. Hoping.

But Jean can’t. Doesn’t dare to.

“Nothing,” he exhales, looking back to his untouched food. He takes a piece on his fork and swallows the explanation with the first bite.

He can feel the expectation leave Marco as he leans back again, the sigh barely audible but visible instead in how his shoulders fall and then tense as he looks everywhere but at Jean. If it’s frustration or embarrassment Jean doesn’t know. Maybe both.


	5. Apologies / Tearstained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original Tumblr Post.](http://emelianss.tumblr.com/post/135112496531/jeanmarco-week-day-5-apologies-tearstained) This is how far the tumblr posts have come to, and the rest will be done sooner or later :') until then I hope you enjoy this part, and would love to hear what you think!

“Hey.” Jean brushes his knuckles over Marco’s cheek, wiping away tears Marco hadn’t noticed were falling. “You don’t have to worry about me, okay?”

His voice sounds nasal because of the rag pressed to his nose but he still smiles, blood on his lips. Marco rubs his own skin dry, forceful compared to Jean’s gentle touch. “I’m sorry. You just scared me, that’s all.”

“Didn’t mean to. Guess I should be the one apologising, huh.”

They’re sitting on the front steps of their building, the distant sounds of nightly creatures whispering to them from the trees, through the empty roads. Jean’s legs are stretched out, his bare feet on the ground and toes curling around the pebbles. Marco’s on his left, the side of his good ear; his knees drawn up to his chest and arms around them, holding in his body heat as best he can in the chill breeze. He studies Jean’s small movements, listens to his now calm breathing. In, out. In, out. Nothing that sounds broken, no sign of internal injuries. He’s okay. Of course he is.

Marco shakes his head, both at himself and in reply to Jean. “It’s fine. I’m glad you woke me instead of falling on your face halfway to the door.” He peers at Jean’s profile a moment, then leans closer to see better in the dusk. “How are you feeling?”

Jean moves the rag away from under his nose a little to inspect if the flood of blood has stopped. When that seems to be the case he wrinkles his nose and rubs at the remaining blood on his chin and mouth with a grimace. A red shadow still remains that won’t go away without water; the dark stains on his shirt front will be harder to clean.

“I don’t like this,” Marco blurts. “You need to stop.”

Jean gives him a raised eyebrow in reply, still scratching at coagulated blood under his chin. “Weren’t you the one who said I should try to actually do something with it?” he retorts, not harsh but still with a hint of annoyance. “What’s the point of foresight if it can’t be used as help and warnings?”

“Yes, but not like _this_.” Marco gestures to Jean’s bloody nose. “You’re exhausting yourself! I know you don’t think I should worry but I do, alright? I care about you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“ _Neither do I_ ,” Jean insists, giving force to each word for his message to come across. “I really like _not_ being hurt actually, so it’s not like I’m trying to change that.” He gives Marco a wry smirk, but drops it when Marco only frowns back at him, unamused. He sighs, eyes moving over to the long grass on his other side. “But if I can use this to get answers, that’d be really great.  I don’t want any more people to die from dangers I could have prepared them for. And that includes you.”

Cold clenches Marco’s chest in an unwavering grasp, making his voice shake when tries to speak again. “Jean…”

“I know I can’t stop you from going, but if we’re to throw ourselves into the unknown, then you can bloody well be sure that I’ll learn as much as possible beforehand.”

Marco swallows. He hasn’t explicitly told anyone about this, hasn’t even really decided it for himself yet. But if anyone would know despite that, it’d be Jean. “You’d come too?” he asks instead of denying it, voice small and wavering despite how hard he fights to keep it steady.

“What, you expect me to stay behind, getting visions of you dying with no way to help you?” Jean snorts and shakes his head, but behind the toughness hides a tremble in his voice. “Not a chance.”

There’s something in the way he says it that speaks all the words he leaves out, and it’s with an electrifying chill up Marco’s spine that he realises Jean must have seen it already. More than once. Like the recurring nightmares he had months before their childhood burned to the ground.

“Jean,” he says again, silence filling the rest of the sentence. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if there is anything he can say. So instead his hand meets Jean’s arm, brushing over goosebumps caused by the cold, down to Jean’s thin wrist, to his open palm waiting to lace their fingers together.

Marco stares at their clasped hands, the silence between them stretching longer. There’s a prickle in his skin on the side of his face turned towards Jean, and when he glances up he finds Jean watching him. Amber eyes burning in the night, somehow alight despite the dark, drawing Marco closer, pulling him into Jean’s space.

It’s happened before; soon Jean will turn away again, pretend nothing is going on between them, and Marco will be quiet and hope that _some day_ will be different. Hope that he isn’t just imagining how the air seems to crackle between them, their skin screaming to be touched, to be pressed close together. He cherishes the moment as long as it lasts, trying not to think about it ending, and how it’ll make him feel. Like all the other times.

But now when Jean finally breaks their eye contact it’s only to trail down to Marco’s lips, his own parted ones wetted by his tongue. Marco’s transfixed by how his teeth lightly bite into the lower lip, and doesn’t look up again until Jean’s so close their noses bump together. He finds Jean’s eyes; feels the hitch in Jean’s breath on his face; leans into Jean’s tentative hand on his neck, pulling him closer. Fire. There’s fire in his irises, fire in his touch, fire in Marco’s skin, and the slow, careful longing falls away in ashes; when their lips meet it’s urgent and clumsy, none of them quite sure how to properly do this but both too eager to care.

Jean’s arms hook around Marco’s neck, hands in his hair, holding him closer, closer, closer.

Their noses crash and a small whimper makes Marco pull back a little. Drunken eyes find Jean’s standing on his knees on the steps between Marco’s, his pink lips swollen and asking for more. But Marco needs to make sure first, and holds Jean’s face with tender hands to see if his nose was hurt. “I’m s-sorry, are you okay? I–”

“Stop saying sorry,” Jean interrupts in a breathy whisper, panting hot air into Marco’s face as he leans in to kiss him again. Marco’s eyes fall closed. He can’t believe this is happening, that it’s Jean’s lips pressing against his own, catching ever tiny noise leaving Marco’s throat. But it is. It is. And the intense way Jean kisses him tells Marco that he’s not the only one who’s been waiting.

“J-jean,” he breaths into it, and the shudder that runs through Jean’s body spreads to Marco too from how close they are. Jean breaks the kiss then, bending his neck a little as he presses his fingers to the underside of his nose. Marco holds his hands on Jean’s shoulders, worry piercing his chest. “Is it bleeding again?”

“No.” Jean smiles as he looks up. His eyes move over Marco’s face with so much fondness, fingers tracing skin with such care. “It’s real this time.”

Marco frowns and brushes his own hand over Jean’s cheek. “Why didn’t you say something?” he asks, but Jean only shakes his head and presses himself back to Marco’s chest, arms winding around his back to hold him close. It’s not just a hug, or a loving embrace. There’s clinging in a way that shows desperation and protectiveness and _fear_ , and putting all the pieces together, Marco begins to understand.

He hugs him back tightly, allowing silence and touch to whisper the rest.


End file.
